Wilson's Journal
by Zombiecatfire13
Summary: Wilson keeps a journal as he traverses the desolate island he finds himself stranded upon.


Entry 1

"I am keeping this journal as a way to preserve what little sanity I still possess. Though, I admit, the effort may be in vain, as I seem to be in a land inhabited entirely by the dark, discarded creatures of a child's story. I feel as though I am Alice, having fallen down the rabbit hole, hit my head, and been infected with some terrible fungal infection. Some sort of plague on reality. Both the Cheshire cat and the red queen of this story are one being: Maxwell. He appeared to me as… hah, a radio. Ridiculous, isn't it? He must be some sort of ageless devilbeast, and he chooses the form of a simple machination? Well, I suppose it was effective. As for how I came to grace this awful place with my presence… that story will have to wait. I have rested long enough, and morning will soon be upon me."

Entry 2

"I have had little time to attend to the higher functions of man, such as the written word. I was going to elaborate on how I came to be on this island… but that was many days ago. I cannot be sure that any account I make now will be accurate. Funny… it can't have been that long. A door, I remember a door. One with a wicked face, and devilish hands. Yes, that seems plausible enough, after what I've seen. Or at least, what I think I've seen. I have had to focus on my very survival for the past several… days… and have not been afforded the luxury of idle thought. I hope that I will soon be able to once more flex the muscles of my mind, rather than scrounging for what scraps of resource on this island that do not fight back. Violence has become a necessity, and my hands have grown hard and callused with the use of what primitive weapons I can craft. The houses and farms pig men of this island prove that even this harsh environment can be home to some measure of civility, even if the fiends themselves have proven brutish and volatile. I still cannot bring myself to end their lives, as they seem to be blessed with intelligence and emotion, however limited. My axe is ever at the ready, though, for there are many perils on this island."

Entry 3

"I have spent many of my days staring out to sea as of late. This is usually interrupted by hostility of some kind, but I have grown emotionless in the dispatch of whatever life causes me distress. I cannot afford to mourn the loss of those that would cut my pulse short, animal or semi-man. Home was not like this. People were cold, yes, and there was no shortage of strained emotion, but monsters did not come in the night to gnaw at my flesh. Er, metaphorically… I think. I see eyes in the dark, and whether they are those of patient hounds or something more fearful… I do not know. Still, I will not risk spending one night without the comfort of a fire's light. The notion of a "night light" seems trivial to those past childhood, but even when I dare to sleep, I do not trust this foreign darkness. In the world of my past, darkness was but a harmless absence of light. Here, it is the summoning call to beasts too horrible for the eye to gaze upon. Maybe they cannot even stand their own sight. Is that why they only come out at night? They seem drawn to me… or do these beasts exist everywhere, and had I a million eyes, I would be met with a million more hostile scenes?"

Entry 4

"I see the trails of beasts everywhere. Lines, unfocused and unmoving, beckoning scuttling black masses. These beasts seem to be manifestations of my own mind, and I have begun to seek more… alternative means of comfort, hoping to relieve this insanity. Picking flowers, for example, brings back memories of better days. Days when I wasn't cold, hungry, hurting. My body has reached its limits, and though my mind cries out for escape, I can only run so far, and do so much. I fear that my imagination has grown gray and dull, for though I have been able to craft items of value to myself, I cannot conjure any images of a life beyond this one. I used to dream of leaving this island, of returning to my native land. Now I only strive to keep the black beasts at bay, and to prolong my life in any other was necessary. I believe that I would have once been disgusted by the thought of looting the final resting places of those who died before me, but now I only see it as a means to an end. Not that I am entirely sure what my past thoughts were. I remember less every day, my thoughts consumed with hopelessness. I wish once more to see a sunrise, and not just the beginning of another dead day."

Entry 5

"Maybe the beasts are real. Not the pig wolves, tallbirds, or other ridiculous vermin that inhabit this island… no, the squiggly black beasts! Yes, they are definitely real. They attack me, yet the flowers I pick keep them away for a short time. Perhaps they have some sort of natural aversion to them? The pollen, perhaps? Strange, it does not seem to keep away other beasts. Perhaps these things are special, like the ones that stare at me in the night. Perhaps flowers would keep them at bay, too?"

Entry 6

"I think I am dying. Yes. Yes, I am most definitely dying. I believe I focused too much on the black beasts, so do you know what got me? Spiders. The little crawly, stingy blighters. Er, bitey… not stingy. No, those are bees. Nasty things, but they are most definitely not spiders. Although they are both insects. No, wait, spiders are not insects. Are wasps insects? Bees? I will never know now! I was… Yes, I was attacked by a swarm of spiders, and unprepared as I was, have been grievously wounded. I do not even have the dignity of being ripped apart by a hound. Spiders. At least it wasn't frogs, eh?"

Entry 7

"I am probably breathing my last as I write these words. Luckily writing does not require much in the way of breath, so perhaps I will live long enough to get some worthwhile sentiments on paper. My thoughts have begun to regain clarity, strangely enough. Perhaps it was the sleep that was forced upon me. I didn't dream. I haven't done that in a while. Perhaps dreams are a luxury, afforded only by those with long lives ahead of them. I have no comfort now, not aspirations, certainly not loved ones. Perhaps by cold body will prove useful to some manner of beast, surviving as I could not. At least I do not have to see the black beasts as I die, with their trails of death. Perhaps that is all the comfort I need in this moment, for the rest of my life. That, and the regained knowledge that, yes, bees are insects."

Upon a fresh scrap of paper, old words are scrawled, yet unfamiliar to he who wrote them…

Entry 1

"I am keeping this journal as a way to preserve what little sanity I still possess. Though, I admit, the effort may be in vain…"


End file.
